Over the years, I tried to give Elena opportunities to be part of their lives.
I sent birthday cards with photographs tucked inside. I mailed school pictures and invitations to performances. I forwarded graduation announcements and messages about important milestones.
The first envelope came back marked Return to Sender.
I assumed the address was wrong.
I sent another.
That one came back, too.
When I discovered that Elena had moved, I tracked down a new mailing address through a former colleague of hers. I sent the girls’ school photographs there.
Nothing.
I emailed her.
No reply.
I sent a message asking whether she wanted to speak to the children.
It remained unanswered.
I did not tell the girls about every failed attempt. I did not want them measuring their worth by the number of times their mother ignored them.
But I kept the evidence.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I feared the day they might ask whether I had tried to keep their mother away.
